He had an unerring instinct for what concerned the hormonal adolescent and what engaged their interest. This meant, of course, that we were served a diet of drama, love, sex and death. Strawberries, by Edwin Morgan, qualifies as on three counts; it’s dramatic, loving and sexual – it was my first exposure to poetry that was both openly erotic, and written in modern English which didn’t mask the eroticism in unfamiliar language, as Donne and the other metaphysical poets tended to, until you cracked their code.

Strawberries

There were never strawberries
like the ones we had
that sultry afternoon
sitting on the step
of the open french window
facing each other
your knees held in mine
the blue plates in our laps
the strawberries glistening
in the hot sunlight
we dipped them in sugar
looking at each other
not hurrying the feast
for one to come
the empty plates
laid on the stone together
with the two forks crossed
and I bent towards yousweet in that air